Magnificent Men and Their Flying Broomsticks
by TheShoelessOne
Summary: The only thing that Martin Crieff had ever wanted to be was a Chaser, except for one year when he was six and he wanted to be the quaffle. Eventual Martin/Arthur.
1. prologue

_prologue_

The only thing that Martin Crieff had ever wanted to be was a Chaser (except for one year when he was six and he wanted to be the quaffle).

To start, no one in Martin's immediate family could say that they had been in any way magically inclined, and no one could say that they had ever had an even slightly magical encounter. Not until little Marty, when he was three, managed to levitate his birthday cake (which he happened to get all over himself, and part of him has always wondered if his parents were more concerned with the ruined outfit than the fact their toddler was a tiny wizard in the making). After the incident, they put a few calls out and found a cousin nobody liked to talk about out in Wolverhampton that had always been a bit odd—turned out he wasn't just odd, he was a wizard, and had been very glad when everyone had decided to leave him alone about it.

They shipped Marty out to live with his odd cousin and tried not to think about it.

Cousin Jackson had been a Puddlemere United fan since before _he'd_ been Sorted (Gryffindor, Chaser, and team captain for two years), and when little Martin Crieff arrived in his new home, his room was plastered and bedecked in blue and gold. Old brooms in the closets, posters lining every wall so that the team could fly loops around the room in an impossible blue blur. Cousin Jackson was going to redecorate for the boy; little Martin insisted that nothing be changed.

The first time Martin got on a broom, things did not go as planned. The arm healed, however, and as soon as Cousin Jackson would let him, Martin was back astride the broom. He decided then and there, age seven-and-three-quarters, that he was going to spend the rest of his life in the air.

He got his letter when he came of age, and he stepped into that castle with one thing and one thing only on his mind: no matter where he was put, he was going to get on the Quidditch team. Naturally, he would have to spend his first year of school reading up on all the right books, studying the theory and technique of broom handling; he had already planned long nights in the library before he'd even seen the castle on the horizon. He hadn't known what the Sorting Hat might say when the Headmistress set it on his head (Gryffindor would have been nice, seeing as Cousin Jackson had so many nice things to say about it, and the team had usually been very good, but any one of them would have done, really), and when it belted out _RAVENCLAW_! he dutifully took his seat at the blue-and-bronze (nearly the colors for Puddlemere!) and settled in with a look of hard determination.

Martin didn't account for being an absolute rubbish Chaser.

His first tryout in mid-September of his second year was the most disastrous, embarrassing thing that had ever happened to him (and Martin was not a child full of grace and dignity). If it hadn't been for the quick work of the team captain, he would have fallen fifty feet off his broom, after having slid to hang from the underside in a turn to follow the quaffle. The captain had lectured him good and hard about preparedness and extra flying lessons before he tried this sort of stunt again, and Martin could only nod. Nod stiffly without recognition for the tears that were blinding him and how focused he was on keeping his jaw from wobbling. He saved the breakdown for after, when he could hide himself in his favorite unoccupied corner, burrow into his scarf and the enormous library book (on proper broom care) and cry. It was a long and hard cry, and even Martin would admit that it was rather pitiful.

But in the end, it only made him more determined than ever. Martin Crieff was going to be a Chaser, and he was going to be Captain for the Ravenclaw team, or he was going to break every bone in his body trying.

Martin locked himself down in studying, took extra lessons, funneled all the allowance he had into buying himself a new broom (which his father never forgave him for, even when he got sick). And in his third year, Martin flew. He flew with great caution and he used every bit of knowledge he was able to wring out of those well-studied library books. And, because there were only enough applicants to fill vacant positions, Martin got to be a Chaser.

It was all he ever talked about.

* * *

><p>Arthur Shappey was born, and some people considered that the crowning achievement of his life. Congratulations, Arthur, you had the wit to make it out of the womb. Arthur smiled and nodded.<p>

There was a great deal on Arthur's plate waiting for him, coming from two very prominent wizarding families—the Knapps on one side, all in the Ministry, and the Shappeys on the other, all of them with at least a business each and up to their eyeballs in the profits. Even at an early age, most of them had already written him off as a disappointment. Arthur was generally blissfully unaware of what was being said behind his back from as early as his fifth birthday party ("Donovan's little girl is already changing the color of their parrot, what can _Arthur_ do?"). Arthur was very content to gnaw on his chocolate bar and watch his uncles set off their fireworks in the garden with unbridled glee.

He was used to being in the way. He was used to being wrong, too. He knew that his mum always meant well, she didn't really think he was as useless as she said. And, for the most part, even when he was twelve years old, he knew that she was mostly right (she and dad and all his uncles and the neighbor up the street who had the funny-looking dog). There were much smarter people that Arthur knew, and people who were funnier and more good-looking. Arthur was all right with how he'd ended up, though, thinking back.

Because he remembered the look on his mother's face when he'd been sorted into Hufflepuff. He looked up with a hopeful smile to the long table full of adults behind him. Some were clapping politely, one woman with gray hair and dragonhide gloves was very enthusiastic, and then there was Mum. Stoic, closed-off, and then, the shake of her head. Below expectations, that's what that shake said. The shake that wrote off Arthur Shappey as unsalvageable.

He almost frowned (he hardly remembered ever frowning, there was always something to get in the way before he could get up the effort to make a frown).

Funny enough, when Arthur was with the other Hufflepuffs, he didn't feel so much in the way anymore. He felt, really, that maybe most of the other Hufflepuffs were the sort of people who had always been in the way before. He could be who he wanted to be without worrying about having to impress anybody. He always got a smile back when he offered one, and a few even helped him when he fell behind in his Potions work (Professor Slughorn worked very hard with Arthur, it wasn't that he was a wretched teacher, Arthur just knew that he was difficult to teach to). It was all brilliant, though, even when he did it wrong and the potion started to froth purple or (like it usually did) blew up in his face.

What he really liked, though, out of all the brilliant things that went on at Hogwarts, was the flying. It was almost every day that there was some team out on the Quidditch pitch, and Arthur just loved to watch them take off on their brooms into the air. He went to every practice. He didn't really care who was playing, even if he really did like Hufflepuff the best, and that's only because he was a Hufflepuff too. Rain or shine, Arthur Shappey was in the stands. Lap full of books he was trying to understand, rolls of scrolls he tried not to lose, all of which inevitably went flying the moment anyone made a goal and Arthur leaped to his feet, clapping and shouting "HOORAY!"

Of course, he'd never try to fly up there with them. No, no, he was much better with both feet on the ground. When he had stood in a line with the rest of the First Years for flying lessons, he could hardly get his broom off the ground before he was wreaking havoc with it. He'd had fun, certainly, but whooping through the air on a barely-controlled rocket and ending up on the roof of Ravenclaw Tower for an hour awaiting rescue was hardly part of the lesson plan—they said that everyone that day, no matter where they were on the grounds, could hear Arthur's cry of "That. Was. BRILLIANT!"

He was strictly banned, thereafter, from using brooms or being within ten feet of an unoccupied one (most people knew that this had something to do with his mother, who could pull strings in a way Hogwarts had never seen). Arthur didn't mind so much. So long as he was still allowed to watch.

* * *

><p>Douglas was the best flier Slytherin had. That's why they made him Seeker. There was only one problem with Douglas Richardson. He didn't care.<p>

Oh, when he'd first come to Hogwarts, he'd been as dewy-eyed and gawping as the rest of them. Over-enchanted, he liked to say. Enthralled by the mystical and wonderful possibilities that stretched out before his overactive childish imagination.

_That_ had gone over quickly. Douglas came to the abrupt realization, halfway through his fifth History of Magic lecture that, no matter how it was dressed up with incantations and transformations, school was school. And these books were heavier and filled with words that no eleven-year-old should have to muddle through. Douglas Richardson was quick to grow disenfranchised with the whole idea of the wonder of magic, and it became as dull a reality as the rest of the world had been before he'd stepped through wide double doors to the Great Hall and its enchanted ceiling.

It was a good thing he chanced to be placed in Slytherin. While there were several eager young minds stored away in the dungeon, there were just as many who failed to be mystified with the sparkling veil the wizarding world was trying to enchant them with. He hit his teenage years hard, fitting into a skin of dry wit and sarcasm that left him utterly untouchable.

It was a bet, of all things, that got Douglas on the Slytherin Quidditch team. The second week of September of his fifth year (it was a horrible day, where the snow decided halfway down that it didn't really want to try anymore and it turned to bitter, slushy rain), all the eager young Second and Third Years hurried out of the dormitory with their brooms and their padding, talking in excited whispers. One of Douglas's mates elbowed him and asked why he kept a broom with his things if he never flew it. Douglas replied that he could do whatever he wanted, and that included keeping a broom to use as, of all things, a broom. Then, someone bet him he couldn't fly at all. And no one bets Douglas Richardson _anything _and walks away the richer.

When Douglas hit the air, everyone swore that they were watching a professional. He swerved and ducked around newbies and Captain alike. Made the rest of the team look like they were lame ducks in water. The most easy, natural flying anyone had ever seen. And he touched down like a feather, smug grin on his lips, and he actually laughed out loud when he managed to catch the looks on his mates' faces.

It was no surprise to anyone that Douglas made the team—except for Douglas. After all, he'd really only been down on the pitch to prove a point (and get a free pint of Butterbeer out of it), he hadn't really been attempting to try out for anything. But there was his name on the list when it was posted the week after. Someone had to find Douglas and drag him to the notice board before he would believe them. And not only had he unexpectedly made the team, he'd made _Seeker_. Granted, the Captain had said later, he was a bit over the usual build for a Seeker, but with someone who flew the way Douglas did, it was worth it.

The only problem was that Douglas didn't care. Oh, he liked the flying well enough, and it was all good fun to throw a fancy trick in now and then. But he could have cared less about the team and the Quidditch Cup. They called him co-Captain and asked him for advice; he would occasionally toss something useful their way, if it meant that they would leave him be. But almost every time, all anyone would get for their troubles was a glib remark from Douglas Richardson.

* * *

><p>Professor Knapp-Shappey was the most competitive Head of House that most of the old guard were sure had ever crossed the threshold of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Even the Beaters were afraid of her, and when she appeared on the pitch during Slytherin's practice, they knew that they were about to get the lecture of their lives. In her time as the Head of Gryffindor, Professor McGonagall had been known to rally rather fervent support for her Quidditch team, but even her efforts paled in comparison to the work of Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, Head of Slytherin and professor of Transfiguration (another area in which she supplanted the now-Headmistress).<p>

Carolyn had been a hard woman when she married Gordon Shappey, and she'd only grown harder since the subsequent messy divorce. Transfiguration was an ordeal under the watchful eye of the stern and knowing woman (some students started spreading the rumor that she was actually heavy into Divination and had predicted all of their grades from the beginning—and she replied to the rumor by not passing a one of them on the next exam). She had her worries, what with the money she owed for the divorce, the schoolwork to check, and the constant stupidity of her students, that it was little wonder that she hardly had time for her only son.

Working so closely, it was impossible not to see him every day. Impossible not to see his glowing, round little face peering around corners to meet her, waving with both hands and bursting to spill all the fascinating mundane details of the day to her. Impossible to not be completely and utterly sick of him after five hours of stories about Quidditch.

It wasn't that she didn't love Arthur. It was that he wanted so badly to be a good son. He tried hard, the poor thing—she should have expected him to get sent to Hufflepuff, she'd seen him every day for the past eleven years. She should have known better than to pray for a better place for him. He came from two good, full-blooded families, he would have been treated at least middling in Slytherin for that fact alone. And a respected Slytherin was usually respected the whole school around. Or at least left alone.

But to have him go to the Badgers. Yes, he would be in the House That Took the Rest, the safest place for anyone who didn't fit in anywhere else, and every one of those little badgers would look after him like they looked after all of their own. But that wouldn't stop anyone else. He might've had a shield in Slytherin, but in Hufflepuff he was ripe for the picking. And Carolyn knew that a boy like Arthur was not likely to go unpicked.

The denizens of Hogwarts could have called Professor Knapp-Shappey many things (most of them in places no one else could hear them), but no one could ever call her unprotective. She loved Arthur for the idiot boy he was, and heaven help the student who raised a voice against him.

Carolyn took her frustrations out through Quidditch. She didn't need any rumors to propogate her love of the sport; there was a big shining trophy with her name on it (Carolyn Knapp, Slytherin, Beater) behind glass from when she'd been at school. She had never made Captain, but she had always organized everything to as ultimate efficiency as she could, and brutally so. And she took much the same position as Head of House, unofficial coach and constant terrifying threat whose piercing gaze could spear her flying minions even from the ground. One was always on one's best behavior on the pitch, because there was no telling when Professor Knapp-Shappey would appear and unleash hell. With a smile.

Every year Slytherin didn't bring in the Quidditch Cup, Carolyn promised to whip the team into tighter shape. And every year, they got better. A harsh mistress, a necessary evil, Professor Carolyn Knapp-Shappey.

* * *

><p>AN: Welcome to my new and fascinating crossover! I can't believe I'm writing this, it's so much fun but just how big an audience does this crossover have? It's all about the fun, though, and I am having scads of it! I hope everything is in order, my Character Consultant was unreachable and I just HAD to post this. I played around with ages, and I think it ultimately will work out (besides, having the boys all at school is going to be SO much fun!) And yes, there is more to look forward to from this crew, so get settled in! Thanks so much for reading, leave us some love, and don't forget to STAY AWESOME!<p> 


	2. chapter one

_.chapter one._

Professor Flitwick was just gathering a few things in preparation to leave when one of his Third Years burst into his office without knocking. The little man jumped and turned to find Martin Crieff trying to look very calm and collected in his doorway—it wasn't really working for him. Flitwick knew Martin well enough to know that the boy had spent weeks convincing himself to say something, days preparing the speech in agonizing detail, and hours outside his door trying to perfect what he assumed "cool and collected" might look like. The mask didn't hold for long, though, and Martin returned to the awkward fidget the professor was accustomed to.

"P-Professor Flitwick," Martin started, and the internal struggle to control himself began. He tried a smile. "Hi."

"Shouldn't you be getting to the train, Crieff?" Flitwick asked, returning to his packing.

"Well, it's only that—" Panic fluttered in the boy's eyes. "I wanted—" _Abort! Abort!_ his nervous fingers pleaded. "To. Say goodbye. To you." _Damn damn damn!_

"That's nice of you," Flitwick said with a smile. "Goodbye, Crieff."

"Sir, I also wanted to say," Martin slurred out too quickly, "that... you have a _really_ nice office."

"Please save yourself time to get to the train and just tell me what you came to say," Flitwick suggested, a smirk somewhere in his eyes.

"Right." Martin deflated and straightened at the same time. "Sir, I think that... have you considered who you want as Quidditch captain next year?"

"The year's hardly over!" Flitwick laughed. "I can't say I've put much thought to it yet."

"Well, sir, I was sort of hoping I could persuade you to," Martin shifted uneasily, "consider _me_."

Flitwick chuckled, which wasn't the reaction that Martin had been hoping for. So the professor sobered slightly. "They don't usually make Fourth Years Captains, Crieff."

"I have more technical knowledge than anyone else on the team," Martin powered forward. "I've read more books and manuals on regulations and formations—"

"There's more than rules that makes the Captain," Flitwick interrupted (Martin pulled a face that said "there is?" but the professor continued). "There's experience, and leadership."

"Experience is easy," Martin pushed. "I can get lessons when I get back to school."

"Besides, the decision isn't mine alone. I would have to hear what the team thinks."

There was a look of panic in Martin's eye, then. A desperate, animal look. If Flitwick had been paying more attention and seen it, he would have recognized it as a face that would do anything.

"I spoke to the team," Martin fumbled.

"Really?"

"Yes. Yes, I spoke to the team, and they said they were fine with it. So long as you were." And when Martin moved forward to the desk, his hands were laced in supplication. "Please, sir, I'll do anything to prove I'm ready for the responsibility. I'll clean your office, I'll polish all the brooms, I'll tutor your problem students, I'll do your washing—"

"Hold on, Crieff, hold on," Flitwick surrendered with both hands before him. "I know how well you work with others."

"I can work better with others, Professor, please just give me a chance!"

Flitwick signaled silence again, and shook his head with a sigh. "If."

"If?" Martin asked, suddenly bright and hopeful with wild enthusiasm.

"_If _you take on tutoring in Charms for one of my Second—well, Third, now—Third Years. Before you congratulate yourself," Flitwick added at the frankly alarming happiness building inside Martin, "you should know that Third Year is Arthur Shappey."

Martin's face fell. "Shappey? Is that anything like Professor Knapp-Shappey?" _Please say no_.

"If _anything like_ means _precious only son_, then yes, _very_ anything like."

"Oh God," Martin groaned immediately. He had never met the boy personally, but he had been in enough of Professor Knapp-Shappey's classes to know precisely what happened to anyone who did wrong by either her or her son. But no, Martin had to do this, so his answer rapidly fumbled to: "Oh God, yes! I'd love to! Arthur Shappey won't know what... tutored him."

"Good! Heaven knows the boy tries his best, and I help as much as I can—maybe someone his own age might be able to clear things up a bit."

"And you'll make me Captain?"

"_Consider_ you. Fourteen is still very young to place Captain. I'll owl you sometime in the summer."

Martin swallowed a protest. "Thank you, Professor Flitwick, sir. Thank—"

"Go catch your train, Crieff!" Flitwick demanded, and Martin retreated (practically kowtowing as he did).

* * *

><p>The train gave off an impatient whistle, and steam hissed loudly through the platform as it waited for the last of the students to finish their farewells. Embraces and tears all around, with addresses exchanged and promises to send owls all summer passed from mouth to mouth. It was Douglas Richardson that looked back over his shoulder and gave the castle a wave.<p>

"Goodbye, Hogwarts," he announced brightly. "Goodbye hallowed, boring halls, bedecked in trivialities and trickery. Nevermore will Douglas Richardson walk your beaten pathways of knowledge and nonsense. Good riddance, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Weirdness. And—Oh, Carolyn, you've interrupted my farewell rant. Care to add a verse?"

Professor Knapp-Shappey had arrived, her stern glare lessened to a more acceptable, human level of tolerance in the presence of so many people. "Douglas, just where do you think you are off to?"

"Why, the whole wide world is waiting," Douglas answered broadly. "I could go anywhere, but now that you mention it, I was planning on _home_."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," Carolyn said firmly.

"I rather think I will, actually," Douglas jousted. "You see, you are, unfortunately for everyone still shackled to their schoolbooks, a school_teacher_. And, seeing as I've broken free of the chains of scholarly servitude, I find myself miraculously able to _not_ listen to you anymore." He smiled happily. "Demand all you like, Carolyn, but you'll have to do better than _that_ to keep me here."

"Douglas, you're right in only one respect: I am no longer your schoolteacher. You are absolutely wrong in thinking that you are getting on that train. You see, that train is for _students_, and seeing as you are, as you say, shackle-less, you oughtn't get on it."

"What do you want, Carolyn?" Douglas sighs at last, leaning on his trunk in a sign of defeat—or at least temporary resignation.

"I am trying to give you a job," she says, holding her head high.

"What job could I _possibly_ want from you?"

"I think you'll find it a matter of necessity rather than possibility."

"Is that some sort of vague threat?"

"No, of course not. I'm only pointing out that you have no job prospects in that wide wonderful world of yours, and you are currently being offered one right here."

Douglas's face dropped as if she'd slapped it. "At _Hogwarts_?"

"Yes, at Hogwarts. Madame Hooch has asked me if any of my graduating students would be interested in taking on flight lessons for the First Years—she's getting on, and would prefer her duties extend only to the Quidditch pitch."

"You _are_ joshing me, Carolyn," Douglas laughed. "I've only just got rid of the little hangers-on, and now you'd like to throw me into a writhing pit of them?"

"Precisely. You're the best man for the job."

"Flattery will get you nowhere. I refuse to accept the position."

Carolyn Knapp-Shappey smiled, then. She never smiled, when she wasn't hatching something behind her clever eyes. She crossed her arms and settled into a defensive stance against him. "You're right, I must have been mistaken. I bet you wouldn't have gone three minutes with the little rascals before they overpowered you."

"You're trying to get my goat, Carolyn, but I assure you, my goat is locked away in a high-security pen with scads of warding spells, exploding runes, and a vicious tiger to warn away potential goat thieves."

"You wouldn't mind a small wager, then?"

"Betting with a student, Professor Knapp-Shappey?"

"As you were so persistent to point out, Douglas, you are no longer a student. This is simply a little fun between... colleagues."

Douglas's mouth pressed into a white, irate line. "I haven't said yes. And just because you've offered me fifty galleons if I make it through my first day doesn't mean that I'll accept."

"I didn't say fifty galleons," Carolyn protested.

"Oh, didn't you?" Douglas asked, feigning vast confusion. "I was fairly sure that was the amount you set forward when you made the bet. It _couldn't_ have been one hundred fifty, could it? No."

Carolyn gave a vague wave with one hand. "If fifty galleons is what it takes to get you in the air with the First Years, I'd say it's money well-spent."

"So long as you admit you can't stand Hogwarts without my well-sharpened and pithy social commentary," Douglas added with a self-righteous grin.

"_That_ is something I'm sure _no one_ will miss. Oh, it looks like you've missed the train. Pity. Join me in my office?"

Douglas uttered a long heave of a sigh and followed, dragging his trunk after him back up the long road to the castle.

* * *

><p>Arthur stayed behind when all of the badgers left the common room for the train. He had his seat by the fireplace, waved his goodbyes and smiled as his friends filed out in twos and threes. He stayed in his big armchair by the empty fireplace, swung his legs, and waited until the last of them had gone. The Hufflepuff common room was so strange when it wasn't filled with happy, talking figures; people slumped together by the fire or perched in the round windows. Arthur wasn't used to being alone (he really rather liked other people, no matter what Mum said about them), but it wasn't so awful, occasionally—he especially liked the way his voice echoed down rounded hallways, his trotting footsteps as he peered into empty rooms.<p>

He wondered how long he would have to wait until his mother came to get him.

And then, the little voice in his head (he didn't hear from it often, but when he did it usually led him to something very fun or very dangerous, or sometimes both at the same time) told him that it was perfectly fine for _him_ to go find _her._ Arthur shrugged, took a bite of his chocolate bar, and (dragging his heavy trunk along after him) left the common room for a bit of an adventure.

Thankfully for Hogwarts, Arthur found someone to talk to.

"Ghosts, brilliant," Arthur said, dropping his trunk to make an impromptu seat. There were, in fact, two ghosts taking up the hallway on the second floor, and both seemed surprised to see him.

"It's the Shappey lad," said the rotund specter of the Fat Friar. He raised an imaginary glass to the boy. "Do come and join us, won't you? Nicky here can be quite a bore."

The comparatively thin, wispy emanation of Nearly Headless Nick gave a dry "hmph" in reply at the first. But he gave no protest to Arthur's presence.

"We were just having a chat about Quidditch, dear boy," the Fat Friar said once Arthur had scooted his trunk closer to the silver phantoms floating inches off the ground. "You don't play, do you?"

"Me?" Arthur intoned with astonishment. "No way, I'm not allowed. But I've been to every single game. Well, every single game since I've been here. It'd be pretty hard for me to have been to every single game before I was here."

"He's quite the avid fan, then," Nick replied, apprehensive glance wavering into something like interest.

"Oh, am I!" Arthur said with great gusto, throwing his arms into the mix. "Did you even see the way Slytherin completely and excellently and most totally _thrashed_ Ravenclaw? The green Beaters were just brilliant, the way they kept the bludgers on the blue Seeker, but their Chasers are—well, I'd say that they're awful, but that might be doing a favor to most other awful things. It's a good thing that Ravenclaw's Chasers are so sloppy, if they could get that formation down—y'know, the one where they sort of make a triangle-y shape and they do that bit where they zoom about and change places in the triangle—they could win the Cup, I think. Especially since Slytherin's Seeker needs replacing. Douglas was honestly the _best_ Seeker I have _ever_ seen."

"He doesn't look the sort to have such a mouth," Nick responded with a vaporous laugh.

"Get the boy talking about quaffles and you had best schedule your meals around him!" the Friar added.

"It's just that I _really_ love Quidditch. And watching all the fun they're having up on their brooms. And since when have either of you been to a Quidditch match?"

"We aren't very noticeable," Nick lamented. "The sun quite effectively blots us out."

"Oh. Well, you could always sit with me, you know," Arthur offered, taking off another square of chocolate with his teeth. "Mum says I get loud when I watch Quidditch, though. And once I almost knocked someone out of the stands from all the cheering."

"Who do you cheer for, dear boy?" the Friar asked.

"Oh, all of them," Arthur answered. "It's just so exciting, scoring a goal, _blocking_ a goal, zipping around, what's _not_ to cheer about?" His grin was contagious.

"You're saying that you could be impartial," came a new voice from behind Arthur and his trunk. He turned to find Madame Hooch, dressed down in clothes ready to head off from the castle—he had never seen her out of her flying gear, and it threw him for a moment.

"Well, I do really like Hufflepuff," Arthur said after a moment of thought. "But mostly I just think everyone's brilliant."

"Give us another sample," Madame Hooch implored, smiling easily at the boy. "How was the match between Hufflepuff and Slytherin?"

"Well, Hufflepuff's got a really fantastic Keeper, she's one of my favorites."

"What's her name?"

"Darling," he said immediately. "Her first name's Melissa, I think. But she's really fast on that magnificent broom—"

"What sort of broom?"

"Does it matter what sort of broom?" Nearly Headless Nick cut in, but the Friar hushed him with an exaggerated movement of his arm.

"Silver Arrow, pretty sure," Arthur said after a moment of thought. "Anyway, there Darling is, sitting all nice and cozy in her goal, when _WHAMMO!_" Arthur illustrated the noise with a great collision of his flat palms, and the noise echoed. "Two bludgers from both sides! She took the hit, though, and she still played half the game with her face all swelling up like a big pair of pillows. What a Keeper!"

Hooch matched Arthur's grin. "I think you'll do just fine, Mister Shappey."

Arthur's face fell. "What'd I do?"

"Nothing, yet," she replied. "I'll have a talk with the Heads of House, but we _do_ need someone to fill in for Jamison."

"Jennie Jamison," Arthur said with a furrow of his brow. "She did all the commentary for the—" And then his face lit up from inside as if someone had stuck a sun behind his eyes. "Oh, really? Do you mean it? _Me_, doing the talking-over bits? You're not just having a laugh, are you?"

"Why on Earth would I do that?" Hooch asked, still bright. She extended a hand. "What do you say we start the inquiries with your mother?"

"Oh, I hope she says yes," Arthur murmured, levering his trunk back up to drag it after him as he followed the woman with the bright yellow eyes. Leaving the two ghosts to laugh about the entire situation and then to continue their conversation where they had left it.

* * *

><p>As soon as Martin received the owl from Professor Flitwick, he had done an awkward sort of dance in Cousin Jackson's attic and maybe twisted his ankle when he flopped sideways off the bed instead of bouncing properly on it. Nonetheless, the boy gathered himself up proudly and cheered quietly to himself for what felt like ages. The little packet carried by the owl had the big bronze C he was to sew onto his uniform, and a letter from Flitwick. And, Martin noticed with a sudden sinking feeling, how to contact Arthur Shappey. It had been nearly a month, yes, but Martin couldn't forget the condition that came with that lovely C.<p>

So he took up his quill and he wrote a proper letter. For once in his life feeling, for a lack of a better term, professional.

_Dear Mister Shappey,_

No, far too formal. He was going to be tutoring this boy, he had to be able to call him Arthur—or he'd be no better than a teacher, and what good was a tutor when you have a teacher? Martin scratched the words out and tried again.

_Dear Arthur,_  
>(much better)<em><br>Professor Flitwick contacted me personally to offer my services as a tutor in the subject of Charms. My name is Martin Crieff, but you're welcome to call me Martin._ (for the briefest moment, Martin considered "you're welcome to call me Captain.") _It would be in both our best interests if we could meet before the school year starts so that I can get to know what needs you bring to the table, and how I should plan to address them. Thank you for your time._  
>(how does one end a letter?)<em><br>Sincerely,  
>Captain Martin Crieff<em>

That, Martin assumed, was that. He folded up the parchment, sealed it in an envelope before he could fret over word choice and tone, and sent it off with Icarus (his father had sent him money on his birthday the year he was shipped off to Hogwarts, and Martin had taken one look at the great barn owl and he couldn't resist; his father still hadn't forgiven him).

And Icarus was back before supper that night, preening on Martin's windowsill and clutching an envelope addressed to Captain Crieff (those two words together shooting a thrill to Martin's fingers and toes, and he was never going to get used to this). There was only a short missive inside, once he'd opened the envelope, the sloppy writing the antithesis of the precise hand Martin had sent out.

_Captain Crieff,  
>This is brilliant! Mum says I can go to Diagon Alley on Saturday. Please come! I'm rubbish at Charms.<br>Arthur  
>PS. Aren't you a Chaser for Ravenclaw?<br>PPS. You're a very good Chaser.  
>PPPS. If you're half as good at Charms as you are at being a Chaser I'm going to get loads better at Charms.<br>PPPSS. Mum says to pick somewhere to meet. Can it be Quality Quidditch Supplies? There's a bunch of new brooms in this weekend and we could look at them.  
>Arthur<br>PPPPPS. I signed it twice, sorry._

It must have been anticipation and quite a lot of dread brewing in Martin's stomach, because he returned supper hardly eaten, and when he did sleep, it was about Charms exploding in his face and ruining his Quidditch career.

And Saturday was only a scant three days away, hardly time enough for Martin to find and organize his notes from _his_ third year, collect the most relevant schoolbooks, find an old satchel that would carry all of them and not burst in mid-stride to spill magic notes all over the pavement of London. Knowing Martin's luck, it would still happen. And then he'd be expelled before he could even fly as Captain. So he got Cousin Jackson to cast as many repair spells as he could on the fraying thing, and while it may have looked a bit better afterward, Cousin Jackson hadn't the heart to tell the boy it probably wouldn't make any difference.

Saturday morning came like a slap to the face, and Martin woke from a fitful sleep. Sympathetic Cousin Jackson ("I had Knapp-Shappey for Transfiguration when I went through; Godspeed, little man.") handed the Floo Powder over with a hopeful thumbs-up, and then the boy was gone in a flash of green flame.

Quality Quidditch Supplies was practically overrun that Saturday afternoon, full of eager young faces peering at the new equipment—especially the stock of brand-new Nimbuses held up high on special broom racks where the sticky young fingers couldn't get at them. Martin found himself at odds: he didn't even know what young Arthur Shappey looked like. He remembered vague impressions of brown hair and a happy round face, but that could have been any number of Hufflepuffs he couldn't properly recall. He wasn't about to stoop to calling the name aloud in front of all these people, not when all of them would turn to him and stare. Martin shifted uncomfortably, wondering how long he could stand in the shop before he could write off the whole ordeal and scamper back off.

It was luck that brought Arthur Shappey right to him.

"Captain!" came an excited voice very near Martin's left ear, and he couldn't help how he jumped (though he did bite back the shout). The boy who faced him when he turned was almost nearly as tall as him, with short brown hair that looked as though it were permanently mussed. A wide smile under wide eyes greeted him, followed by an enthusiastic wave. "You're Captain Crieff. I never forget a Chaser."

"Er," Martin began, "yes, I'm the Captain. Well, I will be. Um, just... call me Martin. For now." In the middle of all these people.

"Aye-aye, Martin," Arthur replied, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. "Did you even see the new Nimbuses, Captain?" he broke into his own speech, ignoring what he'd already learned. "I'm only allowed in the store because you're not allowed to test these ones out. Mum wasn't too keen on me in the Quidditch shop, but she was all right once I told her that bit. What sort of broom have you got, Captain? _Wait_, don't tell me!" He seemed to concentrate very hard, and his face did appear to light as if a bulb had gone off somewhere. "Oh! Was it a Comet? No! Shooting Star, that's it! I always get those mixed up."

"Ah, Arthur," Martin interrupted, shrinking with every word. "Do you think we could go somewhere else? Where we could sit down? And talk?"

"Oh, right. Sorry, it's only that new brooms are so exciting, when they take off for the very first time and _nobody_ knows how!"

Martin fixed Arthur with an odd glance. "I'm sure there's a reason brooms can fly."

"Well, sure, there's a reason. But it's okay that no one knows it, I'm all right not knowing." Arthur seemed to grin even wider. "Ice cream?"

"What?" Martin begged, looking even more lost than before.

"Florean's, it's right up the street! We can take a sit there, _and_ we can have ice cream! Come on, Captain, it's on me! Well, it's on Mum." The boy trotted out of the shop, only throwing one more long look at the new Nimbuses before slipping out the door. Martin followed, dragging his feet and trying to find how the conversation had weaved around him so quickly.

Somehow, around all the talking that Arthur did (most of it about what sort of ice cream they'd be having, how the mint kind reminded him of how good Slytherin was this last year and if they'd win the Cup again, and how Martin's would drip if he didn't get at it soon), they never did get around to Charms. Arthur jumped when he heard the hour chime in the knickknack shop three doors down, and the look on his face was that of a boy destroyed.

"Mum said I had to be back by supper," Arthur muttered worriedly. "How much did you bring to talk about?" Martin reached for his satchel and held the poor, bulging thing up for all eyes to see. And Arthur looked even more concerned than before. "We are _never_ going to get through all that."

"We have all summer to—"

"I know!" Arthur suggested with a burst of enthusiasm. "You can come back, have supper with me and Mum, and after we can talk about Charms, and then you can go home and have supper again if you like." It seemed for a moment that Arthur was going to go on about two suppers and how wonderful that would be (his eyes did drift off in thought for a moment, but then he snapped back). "Please? I really do want to learn things, I just get... I don't know... What's the word for 'thinking about other things instead of the thing you're supposed to be thinking about'?"

"Distracted?" Martin offered hopelessly.

"Yes, that. I get distracted. Mum says so, too," he added with a bit of a drop to his brows. "It's supper and then it's Charms, I really do promise."

Martin started to shake his head—if there was one thing in this world he did not want, it was to spend more time in the presence of Professor Knapp-Shappey than he had to. But he _had_ promised Professor Flitwick that he would do this, that he'd see the job through—Flitwick had definitely upheld his part of the deal, and it was up to Martin to give him reason to wear that C. Martin dug down somewhere deep inside, found where he'd managed to hide his courage (right next to the resolve) and put it on his face. The shake turned very quickly to a nod.

"Supper and then Charms," Martin reiterated, quickly adding, "but you have to _swear_, Arthur."

"Mum said I shouldn't swear," the younger boy murmured.

"No, no, I mean—" Martin sighed and held out his pinkie in Arthur's direction. "This is the biggest promise you can make, and that means that if you break it... Well, you're in big trouble."

Arthur stared down Martin's pinkie as if it were a sword thrust in his direction. "Big promise. Right. Sorry, Captain, what am I supposed to do with your pinkie?"

Martin swooped in instead to grab Arthur's pinkie with his, and they shook on it.

Arthur led the way, and Martin wasn't quite sure what he should expect when he arrived at the Shappey home. All he knew was that Professor Knapp-Shappey was teaching at Hogwarts, which wasn't the most glamorous or well-paying of professions, and that she was as Slytherin as Slytherin could get. Part of him was sure that the moment he appeared in their fireplace, she'd jinx him and send him home by post. With a failing grade.

As it was, only Arthur was waiting for him when he emerged coughing from the sooty fireplace that was apparently in a very familiar kitchen. As Martin brushed the soot from his trousers, he took another look around and finally pinned Arthur with a stern gaze.

"This... This is the Hogwarts kitchen!"

"Yeah. Mum has me use this one. The only other ones hooked up to the network are in the Headmistress's office and Professor Birling's office, and I am _not_ going in there on purpose." Despite the tone, Arthur smiled. "She's got a little suite off her office, it's really nice, even if she makes me use the toilet down the hall." He was off before Martin could stop him. The Ravenclaw shifted the bag back onto his shoulder and took off at a trot to keep up.

"Arthur," Martin said once he'd fallen in alongside the younger boy. "Why do you and your mother live at Hogwarts?"

"It's cheaper than Birmingham," Arthur said with a shrug. "At least, that's what she said. Plus, I get to stay at _school_ for the _whole year_! What could even be more exciting than that? If there was Quidditch in the summer, that'd be more exciting. Oh! D'you think Mum would let you fly around the pitch a few times?"

"Arthur!" Martin cut in (he was starting to get an idea of how one talked to Arthur Shappey). "Supper then Charms, remember?"

"Right, big pinkie promise."

Martin found, on entering Professor Knapp-Shappey's office, that he was not the only guest that would be having supper in the castle. There was a horribly smug and familiar face in one of the armchairs that dotted the office, recognizable even outside the usual green and silver uniform.

"If it isn't Marty Crieff!" cried Douglas Richardson, throwing an arm up in celebration. "What could possibly bring such an esteemed young man to grace our supper table this evening?"

"Douglas," Arthur replied brightly. "I didn't know you'd be over, too! It's like a party! Where's Mum?"

"I suppose she's off giving her orders to the troops," Douglas answered, crossing his arms again.

"We must've just missed her," Arthur sagged. "We just came up from the kitchen. D'you know what we're having?"

"Search me," Douglas said. "Any special requests from the marvelous Mister Crieff?"

"Captain," Arthur corrected before Martin could hiss for him not to say a word.

Douglas sat forward in his chair, gravity deepening his voice. "_What_?"

"He's Captain, now. Captain Crieff. Not Mister. Though, I suppose he's still a mister, as well as Captain. But Mister Captain Crieff doesn't sound right, does it?" Arthur scratched his head.

"They made _you_ Captain?" Douglas intoned in utter disbelief. "Well, the whole thing has gone to the dogs since I left, after all. I had no idea that I was the glue that held the integrity of the sport together."

"It's a good thing you're staying on, then," came the voice of Carolyn as she arrived in the room. She spoke over Douglas ("You know I still haven't said yes, don't you?") to address her son: "Arthur, my dear thick boy, what urchin have you brought in to feed tonight?"

"I'm not an urchin," Martin protested hotly (his ears going candy red). "I mean—Professor—"

"I know you," she muttered, waggling a finger. "Martin Crieff. You turned your pen into a firecracker during the exam."

"It was an accident—"

"A _costly_ accident," she interrupted with a shake of her head. "What on Earth is this destructive boy doing in my office, Arthur?"

"He's my tutor, Mum," the boy chipped in. "The one Professor Flitwick said he'd find for me. Y'know, to help with Charms."

"This is the best Fillius could come up with, is it?" Carolyn sniffed, staring down her nose. "I'd be no worse off if I hired Douglas instead."

"You certainly would," Douglas replied, "because _Douglas _isn't a tutor. _Douglas _is, at best, a potential flying instructor. Because _Douglas _would rather have to deal with the attention span of twenty First Years than _one _Arthur."

"We _did_ discuss distractions," Arthur murmured.

"Enough," Carolyn insisted, the fingers of one hand pressing to her temple. "Mister Crieff will really have to suffice for now, I can't be bothered to find you another on such short notice. I assume you bribed him with a meal, as well?"

"Supper then Charms, I promised," Arthur chirped.

"Yes, all right. Set a place for Mister Crieff at the desk."

By the end of the meal, Martin was a changed man. He was absolutely determined to prove both Professor Knapp-Shappey and Douglas wrong, that he _was_ the right person for the job when it came to both Ravenclaw Captain and tutor of Arthur. He would have to work double hard at both jobs, and find time to study in between, but he would do it or seriously harm himself in the process of doing so (whether in a flying accident or an Arthur accident, he didn't dare to contemplate).

And they did study Charms after supper, surprisingly. Martin laid out his notes, Arthur put quill to parchment; Martin spoke at length, Arthur listened.

"How is it you can remember the names of the Ravenclaw Chasers and not the incantation for a Levitation Charm?" Martin asked, showing Arthur the motion for what felt like the hundredth time (really, it was a First Year spell, how had the boy got this far without mastering it?).

"Oh, well, I've sort of stuffed my brain up with Quidditch, and I don't suppose anything else has got anywhere to sit. I could maybe move another sofa in, but then I'd have to move the dresser over to the window, and then the sun will—"

"Your brain isn't an attic," Martin said with a roll of his eyes. "You can have room for Quidditch and school, I promise. Now, you've got to memorize the words..."

* * *

><p>AN: Behold! A new chapter! I don't have much to say other than Arthur's memory issues will be addressed, and those poor First Years who have to deal with Douglas. And poor Ravenclaw team having to deal with Martin. Poor Hogwarts all around. Anyhoo, let me know if you see any big errors, leave us some love, and don't forget to STAY AWESOME!<p> 


	3. chapter two

_.chapter two._

It took quite a lot of convincing on Cousin Jackson's part to keep Martin from wearing his Quidditch uniform (now complete with the big bronze C) to King's Cross. They came to a compromise wherein Martin was allowed to drape the uniform prominently over his luggage until it was loaded onto the train, and he was absolutely not allowed to wear the robes outside of practice and matches. Martin agreed, if grudgingly.

Martin was used to Cousin Jackson seeing him off at the station, waving goodbye until Christmas. He was _not_ used to being greeted by a smiling face on the platform.

"Captain!" Arthur's now-familiar voice called from somewhere in the crowd of milling students. Martin craned his neck and looked about, but his height kept him from seeing too far. No one parted to let him through, and it took Arthur quite some time to politely step through the crowd (murmuring his "_'scuse me"_s and his "_sorry ma'am"_s on his way). Martin tried to duck away. It was far too late for that.

"Captain," Arthur said again once he'd come up alongside Martin (breathing a bit jagged from the work of swimming through the mess of students). "Brilliant. Do you want to sit with me? And some of the Hufflepuffs? I mean, I thought I should catch you before you got on the train and sat with someone else, because I think, since you're the Captain, you must have plenty of people who want to sit with you, and if I asked first maybe I'd get dibs, and—" He took a moment to gasp for a breath, and Martin took the opportunity to cut in.

"Yes, all right, slow down or you'll hurt yourself." Martin shook his head. "And you shouldn't have bothered, no one asks me to sit with them."

"Well, but," Arthur bandied, "now you're _famous_."

"No I'm—" Martin settled his shoulders a bit importantly, taking a look about to see if anyone had noticed his new uniform. "Well, maybe a bit."

"But you'll still sit with me? Us, I mean," Arthur corrected.

Martin nodded. "Are you... sitting with anyone on the Hufflepuff team?"

"Oh, yeah," Arthur said, grinning. "Carl is on the team, he's a Beater."

"Good," Martin said slowly, and he hauled his luggage up into the car. Arthur followed. While shuffling down the corridor past other happy student figures, Martin kept an eye on anyone he thought might be taking a look at his uniform, opening his mouth to mention that he was the Captain now, but no one did end up asking. Not even when Arthur introduced Martin to the three Hufflepuffs already sitting in a compartment at the end of the car, purposely flouting the big bronze C as he stuffed his luggage onto the overhead rack.

Carl, the Hufflepuff Beater, did seem to recognize Martin (which started a bubble of pride in Martin's chest). Unfortunately, Carl only recalled the incident in which Martin, in a match with Gryffindor last year, had flown into the path of one of his own Chasers and caused a really spectacular mid-air crash. The other two began to chuckle, even when Arthur pointed out that Ravenclaw actually _had_ won that match. Martin tried his best to hide the way his face flushed, but Carl only elbowed him with a knowing smirk.

"You'll get better," he assured Martin.

"He's Captain now, he'll have to," said another of the Badgers.

"Oh, d'you remember Douglas? From Slytherin?" Arthur said blindly, his eyes on the trolley as it squeaked by in the corridor. "He'll be doing all the flying lessons this year." His voice blended into the surroundings as someone ordered something from the trolley and talk erupted in the way jovial talk normally did.

Martin couldn't find it in him to join in (he hardly had it in him to listen, the way Arthur's voice never seemed to take a break for breath). But he stayed, and he nodded every now and then when someone asked him something, and he watched the countryside go by outside the window. It was almost as if Martin were normal, like he'd found a friend after three years of books and brooms. Arthur broke off a square of chocolate and passed it to Martin, and Martin accepted without a word.

* * *

><p>They met once a week in the library. Martin termed it neutral ground, even if Arthur did get a bit loud sometimes. They were very nearly given the boot on the first day (it was a Wednesday, and it had been a very early day for Martin, who had risen before dawn to fret about impending try-outs), when Arthur couldn't stop giggling about the incantation for the flower-conjuring charm, and Martin had shouted. Since everyone was looking at them, and they could single out the footsteps of Madam Pince, they booked it before they could get into trouble.<p>

Coming to rest in one of the archways with a horrible sigh, Martin decided to end the lesson early. Arthur didn't leave. Instead, he asked why.

"Because I've got a lot on my mind," Martin snapped, but he backed down just as quickly. "You haven't got much to study just yet, I think you can do without a bit of extra wand-waving for this week."

"You're thinking about try-outs, aren't you?" Arthur asked, practically hopping with pent-up excitement. "Mum's already said I'm not allowed to sit in on Slytherin's, she says I might go and give away all their secrets, or something like that. I think she might kick me out of their practices, too, but I don't blame her, really. I'm really, really awful at keeping secrets. Like last year, when I was sitting in on Slytherin's practice right before their game with Ravenclaw, and I saw Douglas do that thing—Can't remember it now, but it was _really _cool—and then I told Carl, who told everyone else on the team, who told most of the Ravenclaws—"

"No one told me anything," Martin said with a deepening frown.

Arthur paused in his ramble, thrown off track. "Well. If you like. I mean, I won't sit in on your practices, if you don't want me to, Captain."

"What? No, of course you're allowed to sit in," Martin said, furrowing his brow in confusion. "You went to all of them last year, it's not like you'll be trying to sabotage us." Martin sighed. "Not like you'd have to." He opened his mouth to elaborate, then shut it tight again. "I have Herbology."

"Brilliant, I have History of Magic," Arthur said, gathering his things together.

"They're on opposite ends of the castle," Martin noted, shaking his head.

"That's all right. I'm usually late to History of Magic anyway," Arthur said dismissively, shouldering his book-heavy bag.

"Why?"

"I get lost," Arthur admitted, looking only slightly embarrassed. He smiled through it.

Martin continued to the greenhouses in silence, Arthur tagging along beside him with a bounce in his step, humming something mostly without tune. And when they hit the courtyard, Arthur said his goodbyes and turned on heel to re-enter the castle. Martin simply could not make heads or tails of the boy, and, he decided, it was going to be much easier if he stopped trying.

And then, it came time to decide when Martin was going to schedule try-outs. There was a spot for Beater and Keeper open, and they were particularly hard positions to find decent candidates for. Martin's first act as Captain was going to be to place two incredibly difficult positions, and to fly with a bunch of novices who were going to show him up. Martin was a very proud boy, but he held few delusions about just how good a flier he was. He was determined to somehow better himself before he made a fool of himself and the name of Captain when try-outs came around. So, when the Captains gathered around the sign-up sheet to schedule the pitch, Martin lingered until last (the Gryffindor Captain in particular fixed him with a strange stare, as if he hadn't expected to see little Martin Crieff signing the sheet at all; Martin puffed out his chest as well as he could).

Martin took the last time slot available. And panicked. Slightly.

Panic sent him to the office of the only person he thought could help.

"Douglas," Martin's voice wobbled only marginally as he searched for the courage he knew he had put somewhere. "I need... your help." The phrase tasted bitter, especially when looking into that insufferably smug face.

"I'm so proud of you, Marty," Douglas began.

"Martin," the boy corrected him tersely (he could already feel the flush rising up his neck). Pride got the better of him, and he did himself one better. "_Captain_."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Douglas drawled. "I haven't been paying my proper respects. I'm in the presence of a Captain and I haven't even taken off my hat. Would you like me on one knee, or does your worship require the two? When it comes to sacrifice, would the _Captain _prefer a small mammal, or will only the blood of a First Year do?"

"Shut up," Martin bleated in defense, but he quickly clammed up again. "I mean—Douglas, please don't make this more embarrassing than it already is."

"And miss out on all the fun?" Douglas chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "For example, I wasn't sure what color your face might be at the end of this little interview; I'm putting my money on purple, but we've got some time yet."

"Douglas," Martin cut back in, and it was just harsh enough to elicit an amused smirk from Douglas rather than a snide remark. "I need you to teach me how to fly."

The older boy burst into loud laughter at once.

"I mean," Martin pushed through, raising his voice to be heard over Douglas's unstoppable, thigh-slapping mirth. "I mean, fly _better_. Properly. Douglas!"

"Oh, Ravenclaw is on its way to a stellar season, I can tell," Douglas said once he had gathered himself and wiped an imaginary tear from one eye. "You've certainly distinguished yourself already, Captain Crieff. The first Captain at Hogwarts who hasn't learned to fly."

"I can sit in on your lessons with the First Years," Martin managed to squeeze in. "Take notes. You won't even notice me."

"I can see where your first problem is, Martin," Douglas offered, for once seeming to come down from the high cloud he'd seated himself on. "I'm not sure if you know this, but most flying takes place _off_the ground."

Finally, Martin's face did burst into color. "I'm not an idiot."

"No, certainly not. But, just in case,_ do _bring a broom to the lesson."

Martin's concerned features dropped into disbelief. "Wait, just like that?"

"Just so," Douglas gestured widely. "Oh, but wait, not just so. Would you do a little something for me, just as an exchange of goods, so to speak?"

"What sort of exchange of goods?" Martin asked (already his mind was backing away from the idea of owing Douglas Richardson anything).

"Oh, nothing much." Douglas waved the idea off. "It's only that I really enjoy watching the games with a couple of my mates, and we usually get a little pool going—"

"I'm _not_ helping you win any bets with... with _inside tips_," Martin butted in.

"A figure of such outstanding moral fiber, surely not," Douglas replied. "But supposing that you asked your little study buddy every now and then how everyone is doing at their practices?"

"He's not even allowed in on Slytherin's—" Martin began, and then it started to dawn on him. "Oh. Oh! I'll bet Professor Knapp-Shappey knew _all _about your plans. That's why she made sure Arthur wouldn't be at any of her practices."

"And here I thought I was being _so_ clever," Douglas drawled. "All right, Captain Crieff, we'll call this an I-Owe-You. Lessons start on the thirteenth, right after lunch."

"Good," Martin said, trying to look as unaffected as possible. "Thank you."

"Damn," Douglas uttered just as Martin turned for the door.

"What?" Martin asked with a hitch as he spun around.

"You're really more of a strawberry pink, if anything."

"Goodbye, Douglas," Martin growled, turning quickly before his face had the chance to show purple and prove Douglas right.

* * *

><p>Martin somehow summoned the nerve to keep his appointment with Douglas. After lunch, he returned to Ravenclaw Tower, found his uniform and his broom, and snuck into the courtyard where the First Years were already lining up. He steeled himself with a breath and placed himself at the end of the line, where he might not catch so much attention. Martin actually found himself silently pleading that Douglas wouldn't single him out loudly and very embarrassingly. It was bound to happen, but Martin hoped against all hope that, with all the First Years to take care of, Douglas might forget all about it. Unlikely, but he still put effort into hoping.<p>

A boy sidled up alongside Martin, fumbling a bit with his broom, and Martin really wasn't planning on acknowledging the new arrival until he spoke up in a clear, happy whisper. "Hi, Captain!"

Martin's head whipped in his direction. "Arthur? What are you doing here?" Martin's jaw flapped for a moment. "I thought Prof—your mother said you weren't allowed on a broom."

"Well," Arthur began, "I told her that you were taking lessons with Douglas. I know I said I wouldn't tell, but I tried really, _really_ hard and I almost didn't, and that's _sort of _like not telling. Anyway, she seemed to think it was really funny, but when I told her I'd like to go along with you, she said it sounded like a good idea. So, I'm as surprised as you are, Captain." He narrowed his eyes in thought. "Cap?"

"Why would you even want to come to flying lessons?" Martin asked incredulously, keeping his voice low.

"I thought," Arthur said with a shrug, "I dunno. Maybe I could make you look better. Or be your cheering section! That'd make you feel better, right?"

"I'm just fine without a cheering section," Martin blustered (the last thing he needed was another reason for Douglas to call him out).

"Either way, Mum said I could get back on a broom, so," Arthur said, his grin widening, "hooray!"

One edge of Martin's mouth decided it was worth a smirk.

Once all the First Years had stopped their chattering (Douglas helped a bit in that he began shouting, and which quieted them down rather quickly), the flight instructor began his instructing. Or rather, began his pontificating.

"You all probably have the big idea in your little heads that you're going to be the next _big thing_ in Quidditch," Douglas said in a voice that somehow managed to be arresting and bored at the same time. "I can tell you, without a doubt, that you're _not_, and don't be upset when you can't get one leg over the broom to start with. I happen to have with me the perfect example of failure, actually. Arthur, could you join me up front, please?"

"Right-o, Douglas," Arthur said cheerfully, picking up his broom and scampering to his side. Martin wasn't sure whether to be glad that _he _wasn't the perfect example of failure or worried that his Charms student was going to kill all of them in some horrible accident. Somehow.

"This is Arthur," Douglas said once he had the Hufflepuff at his side. Arthur waved obediently.

"Hello, chaps and ladies," Arthur chirped. "And Captain," he added, for fear that the phrase "chaps and ladies" might somehow leave Martin unaccounted for.

"Arthur has been, until today, banned from even looking at a broom too closely for two years," Douglas said. "Quite wisely, I must say. I was on the crew picked to pluck Mister Shappey from the top of Ravenclaw Tower after he buzzed the rest of the First Years and nearly ran down our previous flight instructor. What possessed the good Professor Knapp-Shappey to put a broom back in his hands is beyond me, but I advise all of you with bad reflexes to pre-emptively hit the ground." Three of the First Years actually followed his advice and slowly lowered themselves to the grass. "Don't be an Arthur, boys and girls. Listen to Uncle Dougie, and I promise you won't break a single limb. I take no responsibility for scuffs and minor abrasions, but I _will_ promise you the limbs."

Martin couldn't hide a scoff at the phrase "Uncle Dougie", but it went, thankfully, unnoticed.

In fact, Martin was surprised to find that Douglas hardly even seemed to notice that Martin was in attendance at all. He made his rounds as he instructed the First Years how to tame their brooms and hardly brushed by Martin as he hovered inches above the grass. Arthur stayed on the ground with the First Years who couldn't get proper command of their brooms ("It's all right, I like it on the ground, too. There are loads of fun things to do on the ground..."), and Martin controlled the urge to try something a bit more challenging than hovering. Most of him knew, however, that trying and failing would be just the thing Douglas was hoping for, and Martin wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

All went according to that plan until it was nearly time to pack up the brooms and get back to normal schooling. When Douglas ordered all the young fliers back to the ground, he rounded on the boy in the blue-and-bronze uniform to say, "Well, now that you've got off the ground, why don't we see how a _Captain _does it?"

Martin felt the weight of every single pair of eyes as they found him. He gulped down the leaden lump of nervousness that had solidified in his throat and tried some sort of smile. "Hello. Er. Douglas, I think you're doing a fine job—"

"Nonsense!" Douglas scoffed. "My mere instruction is nothing compared to the expertise of a bonafide _Captain_. Say, did you know that Martin—sorry, _Captain_ Crieff—is the Captain of our very own Ravenclaw team?"

This seemed to excite some of them (several of them were wearing blue and bronze, and their eyes lit up with some sort of pride), and Douglas folded his arms with a smug grin as he watched it unfold. Arthur gave a look around at the expectant faces, returned his eyes to Martin, and offered both thumbs up.

"I don't think you did so bad, Cap," Arthur said fifteen minutes later, slowing his pace on purpose to keep up with the pathetic, limping gait of the Ravenclaw dragging the broom behind him. "That bit where you almost didn't fall off your broom was very good."

"And how about the part where I twisted my ankle and a bunch of eleven-year-olds pointed and laughed?"

"Not as good. But, you know, Madam Pomfrey can fix that up in just about five minutes. Like the time I tripped on that false stair—"

"I'm not going to the Hospital Wing," Martin groaned. "It's bad enough as it is."

"Oh, right." Arthur kept the steady, loping pace for a moment of silence, then with a sharp intake of breath began again. "So, how is a limp better than not-a-limp?"

"Arthur, if I go to the Hospital Wing, everyone will know how I got this limp, and that I fell off my broom and—well, it's just easier if no one knows that I'm taking lessons with the First Years and they think I got it... I don't know, doing something more dangerous than banking _left_."

"It was a nice bank, though," Arthur said, gazing off.

"It was, wasn't it?" Martin said with a bit of strength going back into his shoulders.

"Most of it."

"Yeah." Martin smiled through the aching in his leg.

* * *

><p>Martin was very good at hovering by the time the Ravenclaw try-outs came along. He wasn't so bad at flying, really, when it came to staying in one place and trying not to knock everyone else out of the air. He was quite serviceable in the hanging there and watching everyone else fly around bits, which was really all he needed for the try-outs after all. There weren't many who came down to the pitch to try out, and only one girl went for Keeper, so Martin gave it to her right-out. She asked if she oughtn't get on her broom before she got the job, but he assured her that they needed someone, and any someone was better than no one.<p>

He got the Chasers to fly around while the prospective Beaters tried to knock the bludgers into them, and a few of them really weren't so bad. Maybe this Captain thing would be easier than he thought. The obvious choice for Beater was Third Year Linda Fairburn (she walloped harder than any of the boys, and left more bruises than any of them would ever admit to). Besides all that, she flew circles around the rest of them and never said a thing about it, like that was the sort of thing everyone was supposed to be able to do.

As Martin managed his landing (wincing at the pressure on his poor ankle), and as the rest of the fliers joined him on the ground, he chanced to glance the stands to see a fair number of people had come to see the try-outs. They usually got a few spectators at practices, but Martin couldn't remember his own try-out being a crowd-drawing event. There were, however, several people gathered in the Hufflepuff seats and throwing up cheers as the event came to a close.

Martin shook his head. It was his classmates: Arthur Shappey and all the First Years who had gotten their brooms off the ground that afternoon—all of them clapping for no reason whatsoever. Douglas sat behind them, reading the _Prophet_and seeming to ignore the lot of them.

* * *

><p>Carolyn was frowning down at another set of papers when Douglas Richardson entered her office without knocking and took the seat across from her. She didn't bother to look up.<p>

"I can't see the point of locking your door if I'm only going to jinx it open," Douglas drawled.

"It's a Charm, Douglas. I can't imagine how you made it through school," she rebutted, her eyes still firmly locked downward. "Why are you in my office? They've given you a perfectly nice one all to yourself."

"They gave me a perfectly nice closet with a chair inside, yes," Douglas answered. "Yours is so roomy, I didn't think you'd mind the company."

"Spit it out," she demanded flatly.

"You sent your boy to my lesson," Douglas spat.

"I did. And the school is still intact, imagine that."

"You were deliberately trying to sabotage me, weren't you?" He leaned in. "Sending your cleverly-disguised disruption in the form of your only son threw me for a bit, but I muddled through the entire lesson with those little ragamuffins without losing a single one to injury or madness. I believe I've earned my fifty galleons."

"If you're intent on wrestling fifty galleons from a poor old woman, be it on your own head, Douglas." She finally broke to stare across the desk. "How would you say the Crieff boy is doing, then?"

"Don't try to change the subject, I'm intent on wrestling fifty galleons from a poor old woman." Douglas held his hand out expectantly. As she pulled out her coin purse, he continued. "It's surprising, really, how competent a flier Marty would be if he managed to settle down long enough to trust his instincts."

Carolyn held back the monetary offering. "You would say that Ravenclaw might stand a chance this year, then? If Crieff managed to get his act together?"

"Carolyn!" Douglas chastised. "You weren't thinking of putting my well-earned money down on a bet for the Quidditch Cup this year, were you?"

"Don't pretend for a moment you won't do the same," Carolyn sniffed.

"Certainly not; I was planning on it all along, but I find myself in an interesting position," he said as she made to hand the money to him. "I could, for all intents and purposes, cleverly mislead you to put your trust in the wrong team entirely. If I weren't certain you would put the whole lot on Slytherin to win regardless. Your loyalty will get you in trouble one of these days, Carolyn."

She yanked the hand with the money back into her territory. "Is it a wager, then? My fifty on Slytherin to win the Cup?"

"That rather gives me excellent odds, doesn't it?"

"Against _your _bet on Ravenclaw."

"Hold on," Douglas suddenly sobered. "Ravenclaw? For the _Cup_?"

"You did say that Martin was looking rather hopeful, didn't you?"

"In the way that he won't endanger lives, maybe," Douglas backpedaled. "He's not worth fifty galleons!"

"Well, it's rather up to you, then, isn't it?" Carolyn smiled happily. "Put that fifty down on Ravenclaw, and, if by some miraculous occurrence I happen to be wrong, you can wring another fifty from me at the end of the year. Get your golden boy Crieff to fly in a straight line and you might come close."

Douglas was not a man to back down from an honest bet (or dishonest, if he was the one being dishonest), but this seemed particularly cruel. However, there was something else that Douglas Richardson didn't like to back down from. A challenge.

"Fifty galleons, you said?"

Carolyn chuckled and continued to mark her papers.

* * *

><p>AN: Many thanks go out to my beta for this chapter , what a lovely gal! I have nothing to say but I LOVE YOU ALL for sticking with me so far. YOU'RE ALL BRILLIANT! Thanks so much for reading, leave us some love, and remember to STAY AWESOME!<p> 


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